Cara O'Shea's Return (16 page)

His blue eyes danced with humor and his fork stalled over his plate. “The cretins?”

Cara offered a self-deprecating smile. “I wasn’t very popular with the boys in high school.”

He lowered his fork to his plate, his eyes riveted on her face. He shook his head. “I don’t know how to tell you this, O’Shea, but your looks would make you popular with
any
high school boy. Believe me, I know. I used to be one.”

She laughed. “Oh, I generated a lot of interest, but being taller than most of the boys and having a centerfold body is a curse when you’re painfully shy. I used to freeze up when people talked to me, and since most of the interest that came my way from boys scared me, I learned to ignore them. I got a reputation for being stuck up.” Her eyes glittered with satisfaction as she recalled one particular high school encounter. “Giving one of my worst tormentors a black eye junior year didn’t help my reputation.”

“You gave a boy a black eye?”

“I knocked him on his ass,” she said with relish, and he laughed.

“A centerfold body with a killer instinct.” His eyes twinkled as he considered the combination. “I think I’m in love.”

She snorted at his wicked smile, even as her heart gave a little thump at his words. Playing house with him, as Meggy suggested, had been like living a dream, but Cara had been afraid
she
was the only one getting ideas. Oh, she didn’t consider his comment a declaration of love, but the staircase had been completed two days ago and he hadn’t said a word about her returning to her apartment. True, the French doors were yet to be installed, but the gaping holes were covered with a temporary wall of plywood. She could move back in anytime. This
thing
between them had begun to feel more like a relationship than a fling. Her heart soared at the possibility he thought so too.

They enjoyed a quiet hour, with Antonio showing up beside their table once their meals were served, to assure his special guests had everything they needed.

Finally, she set down her fork with a groan. “I can’t eat another bite.” She laughed when Finn pulled the plate of chocolate drizzled cannoli from the center of the table and proceeded to polish it off in three generous forkfuls.

After signing the check, he stood and held out his hand. She placed hers in his, and rose. The flash of a camera temporarily blinded her, and she blinked. Finn shifted until she was standing slightly behind him, and turned to face a short, thirty-something man with flyaway blond curls and intense gray eyes. The expensive camera strung around his neck ruined his guise of hungry tourist.

“No pictures, Stockwell.” Though she couldn’t see Finn’s face, anger was evident in his sharp tone.

“Come on, Finn. Who’s the new girl?” Stockwell brought the camera to his eye once again.

Finn laid his free hand on the man’s arm, ruining his aim. Finn’s voice was quiet and clipped. “I’d appreciate it if you’d delete that shot.”

The photographer quirked his lips in a cynical smile. “Just doing my job.”

“I’ll give you a heads up the next time there’s something to see at the penthouse. Lose the picture,” Finn said coldly.

She stiffened. His promise of a scoop involving some future woman brought the reality of their relationship into focus like a cruel slap. Her gaze darted around the hushed room, suddenly aware of the avid interest of the other diners.

Stockwell’s calculating stare slid to what he could see of Cara. “I’ll hold you to that,” he said after a moment’s hesitation.

“What’s this?” Antonio arrived and pointed a thin finger at the photographer. “You wait outside if you want a table.”

With a salute to the angry proprietor, Stockwell strolled out the front door without another word.

“I apologize, my friend. He slipped past us.”

Finn clapped a hand on Antonio’s shoulder. “It’s not your fault, Antonio. Stockwell is persistent. No harm done.”

Antonio turned to Cara. “I’m sorry, bella. The press, they haunt our Finn.”

A weak smile was about all she could muster.

Antonio escorted them through the kitchen to the back door. Finn shook his hand. “Tell Marta she outdid herself.” Without a word, he guided Cara outside and bundled her into the car.

Furious, as much with himself as the greedy freelance photographer, Finn’s knuckles showed white from his crushing grip on the steering wheel. He knew only too well the kind of firestorm a woman would face, being seen with him, but he had ignored his own instincts, because he wanted Cara near.

With Stockwell on her scent, the smart thing to do would be to send her home, tonight. But damn it, he wasn’t nearly ready to give her up yet. He didn’t plan to have a future with her, any more than he had with any of the other women he’d held and let go since his divorce, but for reasons he didn’t want to consider, he didn’t like the idea of Cara joining the ranks of those other women. And she would, if her picture turned up in one of Stockwell’s journalistic rags.

The chances were fifty-fifty the ambitious photographer would hold back the picture he’d snapped. Finn could only hope the promise of a future exclusive would tip the scales.

“Sorry about that. Stockwell is a piranha, but he’s backed off in the past when I’ve asked him to. Hopefully, he’ll do the same this time.”

She snorted a laugh. “I think that’s a safe bet. He could barely contain his excitement at your offer of an exclusive. The question is…how long will you make him wait?”

He jerked his head in her direction, but she was staring out the side window so he couldn’t see her face. Though she had no qualm voicing her disdain of his lifestyle before they became lovers, she hadn’t made reference to his reputation since they’d been sleeping together. He didn’t like hearing her do so now.

“I like women, Cara,” he said stiffly. “There have been a lot of them since my divorce. It’s who I am, and I won’t apologize for it.”

“I didn’t ask for an apology.” She glanced at him, her big, green eyes full of disappointment. She laughed, a short and humorless cough. “I went into this affair with my eyes wide open. You don’t owe me any explanations, and I certainly don’t expect any.”

“Jesus.” He flexed his cramping fingers on the wheel. “I’m sorry. Dealing with the press always puts me in a vicious mood.”

“I can see that,” she said, her voice now as stiff as his.

“It pisses me off that I can’t just flatten an asshole like Stockwell when he gets in my face.”

“Then why offer him an exclusive? And that’s not a criticism. I’m just trying to understand. Why reward him for hounding you, when that will only encourage him to continue?”

“First, because nothing I do or say is going to stop him. To bottom feeders like Stockwell, celebrities are a multimillion-dollar business, and they take their job seriously. Feeding them information on my terms allows me to have at least a little bit of control over what’s being reported. And second, though it ticks me off to admit it, the paparazzi have their uses. Having my name and face in the public eye increases my interest quotient, or so my agent tells me. When you make your living as a pitch man, the publicity comes in handy at the bargaining table.”

“That sounds like a crappy way to make a living.” She turned back to the window. “It must drive you crazy sometimes.”

“You have no idea.”

****

“Word on the town grapevine is, Cara O’Shea has moved into the Sawyer House.”

Finn closed the cover on the electrical panel and shot Maive an aggravated frown where she perched on her basement stairs. “She hasn’t moved in. She just needed somewhere to stay while we replaced the stairwell in her studio.”

“Would that be the stairwell you finished over a week ago?”

He squatted to close the toolbox at his feet. “What is it you’re driving at, Maive?”

“I’m not driving at anything, boy. I’m asking flat out. What are you up to with Mary O’Shea’s middle daughter?”

“Since when do you ask questions about my love life?”

“Since you’ve invited a woman into your home for the first time since Andrea.”

“Don’t make more of it than it is.”

“And what is that?”

“A temporary arrangement between two consenting adults.” He snapped the latches on the box and hefted it as he stood. Maive rose as he reached the bottom step, blocking his way.

“It’s me you’re talking to, Michael Finnegan. Since Andrea, you haven’t let a woman get close long enough to have even a temporary arrangement, until Cara. I like her.”

He sighed and shook his head. “I like her, too. What’s not to like? But don’t go spinning dreams of happily-ever-after. You’ll only be disappointed. Neither of us wants anything permanent. We’re simply two healthy adults, enjoying each other’s company for a time.”

Perplexity marred her brow. “Why don’t you want something permanent? She’s perfect for you, and I’ve seen the way you look at her. She has feeling for you, too.”

He grunted, recalling the acceptance in Cara’s eyes when she named what they were doing together, an affair. She couldn’t have made it any clearer she considered their relationship temporary. She may care for him. Her eyes said so, as did the way she responded whenever he reached for her, but she was smart enough to know their relationship wouldn’t last. Her insight should have relieved him. Instead, it left him feeling itchy.

“Maive.” He sighed and moved to step passed her. She stuck out her arm, stopping him.

“Don’t Maive me, boy. Just answer the question.”

“Maive darling, you know I love you, but you’re seeing things that aren’t there. Besides, we both know I don’t have what it takes to make a relationship work.”

“Poppycock!”

He barked a laugh. “Poppycock?”

She ignored his grin, pointing a finger in his face. “Andrea was the one who didn’t have what it takes. If she hadn’t left, you’d still be there, doing everything you could to make your marriage work. And you’d be miserable. When are you going to stop blaming yourself for her selfishness?”

The grin slid from his face. “You’re biased, Auntie Maive. It took two of us to screw up our marriage. I knew the kind of life she expected to live when I married her. When I was injured, I quit trying to give her the life I had promised.”

Her face softened and she cupped his cheek with a gentle hand. “And she didn’t love you enough to give you the time to work through your own disappointment at never playing football again. She was a selfish woman, more concerned about being seen about town than she was about what you were going through. You’re better off without her.”

All true, but still only half the story. He’d been so caught up in his own nightmare he didn’t noticed how unhappy Andrea was until it was too late. Maybe he hadn’t loved
her
enough to notice.

“I love you, Maive.” He lifted her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm before using his grip to turn her and guide her up the stairs. “And like I said, you’re biased.”

“Cara, on the other hand is just the kind of woman you need.” She continued as though he hadn’t spoken. “She’s strong enough to stand up to you, but human enough to make you happy.” She spun around at the top threshold, her eyes even with his when he stopped several steps below. “I promised your mother I’d watch out for you. I’ve tried to do that.”

“You’ve succeeded.” He squeezed her hand before letting go. “You’ve always been there for me.”

“Yes, I have, even when you resented it.”

His mouth kicked up in a crooked smile. He’d tested his budding manhood against her indomitable will more than once. She’d been as tough as any coach he ever played under and she had usually been right.

“But the one time you really needed me to be there for you, I wasn’t.” She shook her head when he would have argued and moved aside so he could join her in the hallway. “I didn’t speak up when you told me you were marrying Andrea. I should have. I won’t make that mistake again.” She poked him in the chest with a gnarled finger. “Cara O’Shea is perfect for you, boy. Don’t screw it up!”

“It’s an important celebration, Finn. The anniversary committee has been waiting for your answer for weeks now. You can’t keep dodging us.”

Despite her agitation, Jill Carlson appeared fresh and crisp in a pale peach business suit. Her perfectly styled hair flitted about her shoulders as she followed Finn around the studio.

Cara chewed on her bottom lip, and remained silent. In contrast, Finn was hot and sweaty in his ripped T-shirt and jeans. Crouched beside one of the new French doors, his narrowed eyes warned he was considering using the hammer he held to clobber the Palmerton anniversary committee chairwoman on the head.

“Palmerton is my home, Jill. Keeping my name out of functions and events here keeps the press away.”

“Exactly,” she persisted, ignoring his valid point and settling on emotional blackmail. “Palmerton is your home, and you owe it to the people of this town, who supported you in your career, to step up to the plate for this celebration.”

He answered her with a silent, sardonic arch of his brows.

“We need you.” Her New England accent deepened with her whining tone. “The two-hundred-fiftieth anniversary of incorporation only comes along once.”

“There are plenty of others who would be happy to take the position.” Finn pounded away at the shim he was attempting to install to level the French door’s threshold. “Tom O’Shea is the town manager. Ask him.”

“He’s the one who suggested you!” Despite her bulldog tactics, Jill was genuinely interested in the senior center the celebration would help to fund. Finn’s presence would draw the kind of crowds the committee was hoping for, if only she could talk him into it. Her eyes pleaded with Cara. “Can’t you talk to him?”

“Leave me out of this.” Cara held up a hand. “I’ve only been in town for a few weeks. I don’t have a dog in this hunt.”

“Don’t have a dog in this hunt?” Jill stared at her as though she’d lost her mind. “You’re a resident of this town too, and you’re
sleeping
with him! If anyone can talk some sense into him, it’s you!”

Struggling with her own shock, Cara barely noticed the sounds of construction go silent, until one of the men groaned behind her. Beside her, Finn rose slowly from his crouch. Six-foot-five, two hundred and twenty pounds of muscled menace turned on Jill.